Hurricane Children
by VeloxVulpes
Summary: They don't fit in this world. This world without magic or wonder or purpose. They're wild and too real like a hurricane and they're going to burn out in the same way, with laughter and broken hearts in dark nights. They're going to vanish unless they can find and save each other.
1. Chapter 1

**Oh man everyone, long time no see eh? Well, after a long two years of not writing at all, the lovely Halsey's music gave me just the right amount of inspiration! I have the first bits of the next chapter written and it should be about 5-6 chapters in all. Be patient with me!**

Chapter 1

There's a place way down in Bed Stuy,  
Where a boy lives behind bricks,  
He's got an eye for girls of eighteen,  
And he turns them out like tricks

His eyes are as golden as his curls and he wanders the poorly lit streets, thin cigarettes dangling from his perfect lips placed on a perfect face atop a perfect body. He's dangerous and beautiful and he knows it, flirting and sleeping with nameless women with the same single-mindedness of a lion on the hunt.

These women are drawn to him, drawn to his danger and his recklessness. Racing motorcycles with no helmets, hair flying back and arms outstretched to feel the chilled night air racing past. He lives and drinks and fucks with reckless abandon and he's going to end up dead in a ditch someday. Everyone knows it. The women he sleeps with know it and that's why they don't try to change him. You can't save a lost cause after all.

Every morning he goes back to his tiny brick apartment, worn and old with names and dates and messages scratched into the concrete by prior owners. His favorite is the curling initials of C and F. He likes to trace it with his fingers. Sometimes he sits there with a half empty bottle of cheap beer clutched in his hands and wonders if he should add his name up there beside it. Some reminder of his earthly presence before he dies young and alone.

When he sleeps he dreams of grand pianos and lilting music. Of high ceilings and stained glass breaking and tinkling down to the floor. Blood on his feet and in his hair. So much blood.

He wakes up and opens another bottle before going out to stalk the streets again.

I went down to a place in Bed Stuy  
A little liquor on my lips  
I let him climb inside my body  
And held him captive in my kiss

Bloodred lipstick and bloodred kisses. Heavy eyeshadow and thick lashes curled under thicker black hair. She's tall and lean and she turns heads as she goes down the streets, skin burned neon colors by the club signs. Her heels _click click click_ on the sidewalk and she glares at the men who whistle at and catcall her. Gropers are treated with cold efficiency; calculated punches or kicks that take them down with little effort. She wipes her hands, tosses her hair and leaves them groaning on the sidewalk.

She goes to seedy clubs with pounding bass and women in clothes as tight and revealing as her own. She dances and drinks until the early hours of the morning until she finally drags a man into the alleyway, liquor flavoring sloppy kisses and souring breath. She doesn't notice spectacled eyes that watch her from the bar.

She fucks men in those alleys. Quick and dirty and without emotion. She fucks them like she figures her father fucked his secretary while her mother was out. She fucks them because she doesn't know anything else. She doesn't know why her father didn't love her mother and maybe it's because love doesn't exist, but she doesn't want to risk finding out.

She sneaks back into her bedroom in the morning just as her alarm goes off, heels dangling from her fingers and neck peppered with bruises and marks.

She tumbles into bed exhausted and alone.

Her makeup hasn't smeared one bit.

I went down to a place in Brooklyn  
Where you tripped on LSD  
And I found myself reminded  
To keep you far away from me

He doesn't know why he goes. He doesn't know why he goes to the parties where instead of blending in like he usually wants to, he stands out. With his ratty sweaters and hunched shoulders he sticks out from the partiers like a sore thumb.

He's a wallflower and he likes it that way. And maybe that's why he's drawn to the man with the cat green eyes. He's drawn like a moth to a flame. But unlike moths he knows he's going to get burned.

The man burns brighter than the sun with his glittery colored hair and his neon clothes that leave little to the imagination. Piercings and tattoos and a rakish grin make the man larger than life.

He exists in a plane different from this man. This man who is everything he is not. Who interacts easily with the crowd and who deals affection indiscriminately to men and women alike. Stolen kisses between sweet smoke and burning alcohol.

He wonders how those plump lips would feel against his own as a small colorful tablet passes through them, head lolling and easy smile revealing almost too-sharp canines.

This world was not made for a man as animated as this and he knows that one day this man with the green eyes will crash and burn just as surely as his own brother with his leather jackets and mocking smile will. He knows that this man will break his heart and _oh_ how he _aches_ to have it broken.

But truly, how can one break something that is already shattered.

If there are days where he himself partakes in the tiny tablets, home alone and exhausted from the parties, well, who's to know?

He likes the colors.

He says, "Oh, baby, beggin' you to save me.  
Well lately, I like 'em crazy.  
Oh, maybe, you could devastate me.  
Little lady, come and fade me."

She hates him and she loves him and _god_ is she so terrible to hate her only brother. To wish him as dead and gone as their father and mother. She hates his dark eyes and his pale hair, so like their fathers, that beg her to save him from his own vices. She wanders the streets with pad and pencil in hand, drawing for hours on end until all light is gone from the sky and her lips are blue from the cold. She draws the homeless people and the ugly beauty of the city and she loves it and she hates it because she sees her on life in that ugly beauty. But an ugly beauty herself she is not, small and fiery in hair and heart she fights her brother with all she is because she is her mother and he is their father and she remembers how they fought.

Bruises and blood and fading redness from slapped skin and they loathe and love each other in the same breath. She sees the man he could have been and he sees the weakness in her heart. Her love for beauty and the light and he resents it because he has only ever known darkness and he does not want to be alone in it.

Colors flow from her fingertips in ways that do not from his and she draws and paints and the smell of turpentine clings to her hair and she is alive and moving in ways that he is dead and still.

And so what if sometimes his touches linger and his eyes wander.

He is just her brother and brothers don't look at their sisters like that.

Come and fade me  
Come and fade me  
I'm a hurricane

 **Read and Review if you'd like! 3 3**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I found the Devil  
I found him in a lover  
And his lips like tangerines  
And his color coded speak

Coming Down

It's not going to last forever and he knows it. He knows that somehow he's going to go out. Either his liver or a disease contracted from one of the many women he's been with. Or maybe through violence; maybe just this once he won't catch the knife hand, maybe his opponent will be smarter, faster, stronger, will be _more_ than him. And he'll die as nameless and alone as the day he was born.

He just hopes he won't be wailing and screaming like then.

If he's gunna die he wants to at least die with some sort of dignity and self-respect.

He's on one of his benders when he first sees her. It's been four or five days since he's been home and he half wonders if his brother has come to his apartment yet, slowly going from room to room, prepared to smell a body swinging from the support beams or a tub filled with red water or perhaps an empty bottle of pills.

He wonders if this is it and if they'll ever recover his body.

He wonders if he wants them to.

But of course, then he sees her and it's like a flash of clarity and color in the dark mist of the early morning.

She's small and exquisite with pale skin and orange freckles several hues lighter than her red hair. Curls loop from under her knit hat and brush across her rosy cheeks marred by a single bruise right below her eye.

Perfect. Perfect is what she is and the words fall from his drunken lips and he wants to know her, aches to know her in the same way he aches to know all the other women he's ever been with.

And that's all it is at that moment because he doesn't believe in love at first sight. Hell, he barely believed in love itself. How could he when he had seen so much hate.

He wants to talk to her, to go up and introduce himself and learn her name.

But he doesn't because he is ugly and she is perfect and although he was a bastard and a sinner, he was not a monster.

So he lets her walk by and watches her, taking in the paint stains and the charcoal smudge on her nose and she wonders if she has that tiny callous between her fingers that he'd seen on some of his artist friends from high school.

From then on he keeps an eye out for her. He doesn't know why. He has slept with scores of women more beautiful than her and he doesn't know why he wants to see her again but he does and it frustrates him because he cannot find her and he cannot stop looking and it is a cycle that leads to more women and more booze and more searching and he cannot find her.

He cannot find her.

She finds him.

He stands there with his cigarettes and his leather jacket that is the newest thing he owns. A gift from his adopted mother with a quiet offer to return home where there is warmth and good food and no need for the gun he keeps in his bedside drawer.

But he cannot go home because it is not home anymore. Not since a little boy with brown eyes and black hair.

She comes up to him and she smiles so sweetly and it makes him angry because how dare she be so sweet when he is so ugly and dark.

He sneers at her despite his elation at seeing her again and she doesn't even have the gall to look intimidated by his glare that he knows for a _fact_ can make grown men draw back.

She doesn't even look impressed and he finds himself enchanted with her all over again.

She asks to draw him and he is taken aback because an artist draws pretty things and soft things and she should be drawing flowers and birds and the sunset.

Not him with his flaws and darkness and scars from old knife fights.

 _Maybe she isn't so used to pretty things though,_ he thinks to himself after a moment, looking at the split lip she is slowly worrying with her teeth.

He agrees and he tells himself it's just to get laid and not because he wants to know what's behind those shuttered green eyes and that stubborn set in her jaw. He's not intrigued.

He's not.

Her name is Clary Fray and he introduces himself as Jace Herondale.

He's sitting on the edge of some fountain in central park, watching the smoke from his cigarette curl slowly up into the air. Clary sits on the ground in front of him, pencils clutched in her teeth and sketchpad balanced on one knee with a pencil sharpener and a ball of what looks like clay perched precariously on the other.

He's flirting with her of course, random innuendos and statements spouting from his lips without paying much attention.

It's reflex at this point.

Clary is wholly unimpressed with the entire act however, perhaps to focused on drawing him (He tells her to get his good side, which is of course every side. She thins her lips at him in disapproval.)

He talks and he doesn't know what about. He never does. Just words to fill the silence and the soft scratch of pencil on rough paper. She answers sometimes and the conversation between them is slow but it flows.

He feels at ease with her and he hasn't felt like this for a long time. _It's strange_ , he thinks as he walks her to the bus stop when the light has faded, he can't remember the last time he found himself genuinely enjoying a conversation like he has with her.

Of course h stays with her while the bus comes because it is dark and it is the city and he may be depraved and immoral but he is not an absolute lost cause. They watch the sunset together and it reflects off her red hair, making her almost glow and it takes his breath away for a moment (He doesn't know she's looking at him the same way, the orange light turning his own hair to molten gold and making his eyes glow with amber flame)

Watching her climb the steps of the bus he's seized with a sudden madness and he jolts forwards, almost face planting despite the fact that he's usually quote graceful and balanced, and grabs her elbow.

She looks back at him quizzically and his voice is breathless and shaky desperate when he asks her

"Can I have your number?"

Walking away he's confused and angry with himself. He doesn't get girls numbers, he doesn't make friends. He has his siblings when he can stand being around them but he doesn't get close to girls like this.

He didn't ask her for her number in order to sleep with her even as he tries to convince himself of that being his goal.

She's just a girl after all.

 _Liar_.


End file.
